‘Never more so,’ says Dad and he wraps an arm around Mum and brings her close.
‘And you’re not disappointed?’ I ask Dad.
‘Of course not, we both know you’re never happier than in the bookshop, and happiness is all that matters.’
‘So, will you?’ Mum asks.
‘Mum, of course I will!’ I cry, getting up to wrap myself around them both.
Supper in the dining carriage was a feast of smoked salmon, followed by haggis, neeps and tatties, and ending with cranachan soaked in enough whisky to sink a small ship. I’d sat at a table with Flynn, Daisy and Joe and chatted the journey away with ideas for the bookshop – Flynn and Joe brimming with ideas for events and new titles, Daisy excited about the prospect of a great neighbourhood bookshop for her to redesign and where she might while away her days.
Now, after supper, and with Flynn supervising the setting-up of the ceilidh, Marleen approaches me in the observation car where I’m dreaming about the whirlwind that was Paris.
‘Have you had a chance to think about the position I offered?’ she asks, sitting beside me.
‘I have,’ I answer, my tone apologetic. ‘Unfortunately, I have to pass.’
I explain about Mum and Dad offering me the bookshop and how everything I’d be doing for her in London I could be doing at home in Edinburgh.
‘I figure it makes sense to be part of an independent neighbourhood bookshop scene in my own city rather than somewhere else.’
‘I must confess, I thought you were too bright for the position anyway,’ she says kindly. ‘Perhaps you’d be willing to allow me to do a book talk or two when you have the bookshop up and running?’
‘I’d like nothing more,’ I say, giving her a hug.
‘Oh, and Carly,’ she says, holding my hand and looking me directly in the eyes.
‘Yes?’ I ask, uncertain what she’s about to say.
‘A word of advice.’ She glances towards Flynn, who’s just announced that we can all make our way back through to the dining car. ‘Try to look past people’s signs; they are often misleading.’
‘OK,’ I laugh nervously, not sure what she’s getting at.
She pats me energetically on the knee. ‘Shall we go join the ceilidh?’
‘Sure,’ I reply.
Marleen leads me through to the dining car, wherekilts are swishing and fiddles playing. She takes me straight to Flynn who sweeps me into a reel that neither of us appears to know but we enjoy regardless.
We dance until I can stand no more.
‘I need to sit this one out,’ I pant, dizzy from Grant spinning me at a hundred miles an hour.
‘You and me both,’ puffs Flynn, and we collapse on to a sofa in the corner of the carriage with a bottle of water and a shot of whisky each.
‘Joe’s going to regret this in the morning,’ I laugh, watching him being flung around by Daisy, already three sheets to the wind.
‘Himandyour dad,’ he laughs, as we watch Mum and Dad completely lost in an eightsome reel.
‘It’s nice to see him smiling,’ I say, thrilled at the sight of both my parents enjoying themselves, something I haven’t seen in a long time.
‘Frank and Marleen look to be having a good time too,’ he says, the two of them taking the reel at their own pace, broad smiles on their faces as they dance hand in hand. ‘They’ve got great chemistry.’
‘Chemistry,’ I repeat, the static between us rising.
‘It’s not something you can fake,’ he says, drawing closer, just as he did at the Eiffel Tower, but this time I inch forward too. ‘I shouldn’t have answered the phone at the tower, and I should have spoken to you at the meet and greet.’
‘You were busy.’
